


Ray's Great Escape

by damfina



Category: due South
Genre: Because there just isn't enough Ray/Steve McQueen fic out there, M/M, Masturbation, Motorcycle Sex, Sexual Fantasy, or i do anyway, you know we all want it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5774977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damfina/pseuds/damfina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the moment he saw that beast on screen, roaring down the San Francisco streets in all its highland green glory, Ray was pretty sure this was the greatest movie he had ever seen. But it wasn’t just the car.</p><p><em>Steve McQueen</em>. Holy. Fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ray's Great Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Let me preface this by saying that I know absolutely nothing about motorcycles and nearly nothing about cars. I just needed something to bend a very willing Ray K over.

It started in 1975. His old man had taken him to a re-release showing of _Bullitt_ at the old Rialto Cinema. Ray had gone strictly for the car - a 1968 V8 390 Mustang GT Fastback – the sexiest thing on 4 wheels Ray could imagine.

And it wasn’t a disappointment. From the moment he saw that beast on screen, roaring down the San Francisco streets in all its highland green glory, Ray was pretty sure this was the greatest movie he had ever seen. But it wasn’t just the car.

 _Steve McQueen_. Holy. Fuck.

Of course Ray had heard of Steve McQueen - he was the most famous actor in the world, but this was the first time he had actually seen him on screen - walking and talking and _oozing_ cool from his pores. His voice, the casual grace of the cigarette between his lips, that goddamn shoulder holster, it was positively pornographic. It wasn’t long before Ray’s pants had become uncomfortably tight and he was desperate to go rub one off in the theater bathroom.

Ray had managed to make it through the movie without having to take a personal intermission, but once home he locked himself in his room for the next couple of hours to replay some of his favorite scenes behind tightly closed eyes. Before long McQueen had replaced Ursula Andress as his favorite jerk off fantasy, his wardrobe began to feature a hell of a lot more white t shirts, denim button downs, and leather boots, and he developed a burning passion for motorcycles.

Twenty two years later not much had changed. Ray had never been able to afford that sweet Mustang (though he was he was more than happy with his ’67 GTO, a real beauty, if Ray did say so himself), but he had managed to save up enough money moonlighting as a security guard during his rookie years to buy an original, busted up 1961 Triumph TR6 Trophy, the exact model that McQueen had ridden in _The Great Escape_.

He had spent five years slowly restoring it, buying parts when could pay for them and working on it himself in the little storage unit he rented as a makeshift garage, until it was back in perfect showroom condition.

 

 

Ray smiled to himself and wiped the grease from his palms, thinking back to the day he first picked up the rusted-out old bike and focusing his attention on gently polishing the shiny, smooth metal with a clean rag.

Once the already gleaming metal had been polished to a sheen, he dropped the worn rag into a pile of other soiled ones and sat down on an overturned crate to appreciate his handiwork. He took a long pull from his beer bottle, leaning back to rest against the wall. Fuck that was a sexy little bike, no wonder McQueen was such a fan of them. Ray could picture him hovering over the supple leather seat, his long legs gracefully straddling the frame, just like he had in the _The Great Escape._

McQueen probably fucked the way he rode his bikes, Ray imagined- hard and rough and wild and until he had gotten exactly what he wanted from them. Sure Ray knew that he had been married three times, to three _women_ , but he liked to think that, like Brando, McQueen would probably fuck anyone who caught his eye.

Ray pressed the bottle to his lips again and imagined McQueen in the little garage with him, sitting on the bike, his bike, shaking the road dust from his hair, wiping his face with the cuff of his shirt, throwing a brooding glance in Ray’s direction.

He closed his eyes and sucked his lower lip into his mouth, biting down gently, letting his hand abandon the neck of his beer bottle to release his zipper, inching it down.

McQueen would play it cool, he knew that for sure. Hell, he’d probably just sit back expectantly and wait for Ray to offer himself to him. Ray could just see him slinging one leg up and over the handlebars to face him, resting his glorious ass on the seat of the bike, legs crossed casually in front of him.

Right. In. Front of him.

_Ray’s eyes pass over the growing bulge in McQueen’s pants, stretched tight over his hips, dropping to his hands and knees, crawling over to him, running his hands over the smooth denim covering lean, well-muscled thighs._

Ray let his hand slip into his own gaping fly to palm his cock.

_He grasps the waist of McQueen’s pants, slowing popping open the buttons, one by one. Ray pushes his pants down just enough to free his straining cock, thick and heavy, a pearly drop leaking from the tip. He looks up at him through the fan of his long blond eyelashes, and McQueen looks back down with a smirk, knowing how bad Ray wants to taste him. Ray licks his lip and runs his tongue slowly up the pulsing vein of the shaft before letting himself softly suck on the swollen purple head. McQueen groans, almost inaudibly. Ray feels the gentle pressure of a hand on the back of his head, gently guiding him, the faint scrape of fingernails on his scalp._

Ray loved sucking cock – he was fucking fantastic at it. He could deep throat a cock to its base without tripping his gag reflex. He squeezed his already closed lids even tighter and slowly stroked his own cock, imagining taking McQueen fully into his mouth…

_…the blunt tip is pressing at the back of his throat and he feels full. So wonderfully full. McQueen is fisting the hair at the back of his head roughly now with both hands, holding his head steady and thrusting into his mouth with short, quick, violent snaps of his hips until tears are forming at the corners of Ray’s eyes, streaming down his face. Ray’s hands find the bike seat behind McQueen’s driving hips, his fingertips pressing into soft, conditioned leather as he steadies himself, willing McQueen to cum in his mouth, down his throat. Ray can tell he’s getting close as his movements become more erratic and he prepares himself for the hot spill of his release, but instead McQueen suddenly stops, still buried inside of Ray’s mouth, pausing for a moment before pulling out, his face taut with the effort of restraint. Ray sputters slightly, coughing out a muted “Steve?” before he feels the tight grip of strong hands on both of his arms._

_His eyes are still blurred from the vigorous face fucking as he is effortlessly hauled to his feet. He can make out the soft outline of disheveled hair and piercing blue eyes before rough, chapped lips are pressed against his. There is a burning scrape of stubble against stubble before his lips are parted and McQueen’s tongue softly slides between them, licking into him, claiming Ray’s mouth._

_Before he has a chance to respond to the invasive kiss it is broken and a hand on the back of his neck is forcing him down, bending him over the seat of the bike._

Ray spat into his palm and stroked himself faster, thrusting up into his fist, wanting it to be McQueen’s hand instead of his.

_He’s staring at the smooth concrete floor, blood rushing to his face, but he can see black motorcycle boots planted firmly behind his own. His pants are yanked from his narrow hips and he opens his legs as wide as he can with the waistband circling around his knees. Ray knows this is just a quick fuck and there isn’t going to be a lot of prep, so he braces himself for a sudden intrusion._

_Ray’s own cock is hard and aching, trapped between his stomach and the leather seat. He desperately wants some kind of friction, or for something to happen, when he hears a soft, wet, sucking and two fingers begin to scissor him open._

_His eyes focus on the boots behind him as he grimaces through the bliss of thick fingers working into him. The burn is painful, but good, so good, and brief. They are finally withdrawn and immediately replaced with the searing hot, blunt pressure of McQueen’s cock. Ray looks between his own splayed legs to see McQueen’s knees bend slightly as he presses into Ray, stretching him open, until he is buried inside of him to the root._

_McQueen’s balls are pressed against his ass and he still has a hand firmly grasped around the back of Ray’s neck, holding him down. Ray can barely breath in this position and his cock feels like it’s about to explode from the pressure of being trapped between his body and the bike seat. McQueen leans down, covering his body with his own, and there is a sharp scrape of teeth at the back of his neck before he finally starts moving._

_And then he’s pounding into Ray, coming nearly all the way out before slamming back into him. The bike rocks back and forth, kickstand groaning from the weight of two men._

_McQueen loops his arms underneath Ray’s shoulder’s hauling him up, supporting his weight as he relentlessly fucks into him. The change in angle sends McQueen’s cock driving straight into Ray’s prostate. He can hear himself moaning with every thrust and he knows he should feel embarrassed, but FUCK that feels good._

_Just when Ray feels like every blood vessel in his body is going to burst from the intensity, a rough, calloused hand grasps his untouched cock. McQueen fucks Ray into his own tight grip with a few final thrusts and Ray finally cums with a scream, feeling the hot spurt of McQueen’s release shoot deep inside of him._

_They fall back down across the bike, panting heavily, McQueen’s cock softs inside of Ray and the blissful weight of it slips out. There is the subtle sound of a zipper and a quiet shuffle of boots. And then he’s gone._

And so was Ray - totally gone, spilling his own release over his stomach, shooting onto his grease stained shirt. He stroked himself through the aftershocks of his orgasm before picking up another clean rag to wipe himself off.

Ray glanced over at his bike. It looked the same, but Ray knew. Even if it wasn’t real, that bike would never be the same. Every time he rode it, touched it, hell every time he even looked at it, he’d remember- that’s the bike Steve fucking McQueen fucked him over. He picked up his used rags and tools and tossed them back in the box he brought with him and then covered the pristine bike.

He hitched the box under his arm and glanced one more time at the silhouette of the sleeping bike before pressing the button to raise the automatic door.

Light streamed into the small space underneath the opening door, revealing a very shiny, distinctive pair of boots.

“Ray! I thought I might find you here!” Fraser exclaimed, hand raised in preparation to knock, glancing between the covered bike and the box underneath Ray’s arm.

“Well Fraser, you found me.” Ray muttered, closing the door

“McQueen?” Fraser asked him knowingly.

Ray felt himself flush and stared down at his own boots. “Isn’t it always?”

“Well, Ray” Fraser continued, “for me it was always Gene Kelly, but I won’t deny that Steve McQueen had his appeal.” He cocked his head and gave Ray that little half smile that let him know everything was ok.

Ray grinned, throwing the box into the back seat and swinging his long legs into the car. “Oh yeah? Well maybe you could show me one sometime. A Gene Kelly film I mean.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Fraser paused before closing the passenger side door.

Ray felt his cock twitch at the prospect.  He turned the key defiantly, engine roaring to life.  "Deal."


End file.
